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The whispers became inaudible, their intensity apparent, individual words impossible to make out. Except at the end. Polina, her anger rising, said,
“God damn it, Tolik, if you won’t, I will. Come on.”

Nothing for a few minutes, then Polina’s voice with Gorbenko. They’d moved to the kitchen.

“Leo?”
she said.

“What the…”

“Move, out the door.”

“Kosokov, what the fuck is this? I have no time for—”

The shotgun roar drowned the rest of the sentence.

Polina spoke again.
“One barrel left. Move!”

The door creaked open and banged shut a few seconds later.

Silence on the tape.

It came back to life with a rumble. As the Chekist found out when he got there, they’d taken Gorbenko to the barn.

“Over there,”
Polina said.

“What do you want?”
Gorbenko said, his voice betraying panic.

“We’ll get to that. Open that trapdoor.”

A grunt as he pulled at the concrete slab covering the hatch in the back of the barn.

“Look, Kosokov, I can—”

The blast from the shotgun cut him off. The Chekist would see later she’d hit him square in the chest. The force knocked him through the opening and down the cement stairs to his grave.

Kosokov said,
“Jesus Christ, Polya. You didn’t have to—”

“Where’s Eva?”

“But you just—”

“Where’s Eva, God damn it?”

“I don’t know. Around somewhere. She was playing with her doll an hour ago.”

“Find her. Finish getting ready. I have to go to our dacha. That’ll take an hour, it’s already snowing, but I have money there, and jewelry we can sell.”

“What about … What about him?”

“Leave him. He was the Cheka’s stooge, let them worry about it. And stop drinking. We’ve got a long night.”

The barn door rolled closed. Silence on the tape again until they were back in the house.

“I put Eva’s stuff in this bag,”
Polina said.
“She must be outside. I’ll leave it by the front door. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Kosokov belched. The Chekist stopped the tape. Timing, they say, is everything. His, that day, had been a little off. Today it was better.

CHAPTER 15

I checked e-mail as soon as I got up. Foos’s message, timed at 3:42
A.M.
, said, “Risly was good, but not as good as he probably thought he was. I’m in. Gonna grab some shut-eye. I’ll have whatever there is to have in the morning.”

I called Brighton Beach. I didn’t worry about the hour.

“What the fuck do you want now?” Lachko said.

“How’s Iakov?”

“In the fucking hospital.”

“He’s alive.”

“I suppose you take credit for that.”

“He was lucky. Which hospital?”

“Why?”

“I want to visit.”

“Stay the fuck away, Turbo. We’ve had enough of you.”

“I’ve got Rislyakov’s computer.”

That stopped him. “What computer?”

“Laptop. He had it with him yesterday.” Iakov hadn’t said anything to Lachko about the computer.

“It belongs to me. I want it back.”

“That’s why I’m calling. As soon as I hear that Sasha is out of jail, all charges dropped, back at his job, you can have it.”

“Turbo, you dick-sucking son of—”

“That’s the deal. Tell Sasha to contact me in the usual way. I’ll call back when I hear from him. Which hospital?”

“Fuck your mother. Mount Sinai.”

“I’ll drop by later this morning.”

The line went dead. I wiped away the sweat on my forehead. The air-conditioning was working, but the temperature had risen ten degrees in two minutes.

He hadn’t asked about Eva. One more thing out of whack.

*   *   *

I ran three miles at a good clip, legs loose, body ready to do whatever I asked, despite the heat. I pumped iron for half an hour. When I got home at seven fifteen, a black Suburban with tinted windows was idling out of place in front of my building. Two men in suits got out. I recognized the big one—he’d been with the group that arrested Mulholland. He wasn’t quite as large as a refrigerator, but he had the same boxy build.

“Your name Vlost?” he said.

“Who wants to know?” I replied, smiling to signal I wasn’t being obstinate, just cautious.

Fridge pulled out a wallet and showed me an ID card that read FBI. “Special Agent Coyle. This is Agent Sawicki. Boss wants to talk to you.”

Sawicki grunted. I wondered if he knew I was Russian.

“This a social invitation or you guys strictly business?”

“It’ll be better for all concerned if you come along for a chat,” Coyle said.

Sawicki grunted again.

I pulled at my sweat-drenched T-shirt. “Can I shower first? Whoever your boss is probably doesn’t want to meet me like this.”

Sawicki grinned at that. Coyle hesitated.

“You can come upstairs if you like. I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’ll be in the car,” Coyle said. “Make it quick. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting—and she’s been waiting since last night.”

Sawicki grinned again. For whatever reason, Coyle was giving me a heads-up. I smiled. “Appreciate that. I’ll be right back. You guys want coffee, there’s a deli around the corner.”

He nodded. “Already found it.”

*   *   *

The three of us drove in silence to an office tower in St. Andrews Plaza, one of a hodgepodge of government, court, and police buildings between City Hall and Chinatown. The area teems from late morning to late afternoon, but at five after eight on another hot day, it was dead quiet. The Suburban’s air ran full blast the whole way and almost stopped my sweating by the time we arrived.

A brief walk through the heat, a longer wait to be metal detected, and a still longer ride in a slow government-service elevator. The sign on the glass door read
UNITED STATES ATTORNEY
,
SOUTHERN DISTRICT
–
NEW YORK.
No receptionist at the desk. Coyle left me with Sawicki and went down a hall. A few minutes later, he took me down the same hall to the end. Empty outer office. In the room behind, a raven-haired woman stood at the window, her back toward me. She turned as Coyle left, closing the door.

“I’m told y’all are fuckin’ around in not just one but two of my cases. Suppos’n you tell me why and what for before I have your ass deported back to whatever socialist shit-hole you came from in the first place.”

CHAPTER 16

I listen to what used to be called country music because of, as Charlie Parker once reportedly said, “the stories, man, the stories.” It’s now known by the nondescriptive “roots” or “Americana,” but whatever the term, I was standing in front of the inspiration for countless tunes about the honky-tonk angels who turn otherwise strong-minded men into helpless fools. When I finally told her that, she took it as a compliment—she’s a big fan of Loretta Lynn.

Victoria de Millenuits. Victoria of a thousand nights. I realize I’m in no position to say it, but what’s in a name? It fits her like a pair of tight jeans.

She’s a few inches shorter than I am and built, to use a marvelous metaphor, like a brick shithouse. (Americans, like Russians, can be clever with wordplay, even when it makes no sense.) She has long legs, a full figure, just the right amount of honky-tonk mascara and lipstick, and a pout that turns men—at least this one—to jelly before she gets her lips fully formed. She wears her black hair thick and long, past her shoulders. The eyes—green ellipses that seem descended directly from ancient Egypt—are as deep as the Nile. They laugh when she wants them to and turn sad when she doesn’t. Her nose is a touch too small and her mouth—those pouting lips—too large. The overall effect would have driven Botticelli to distraction.

That first meeting, in her U.S. attorney’s office, the full package was on subdued display. An Armani suit straightened the shithouse curves, but they still took my mind off worrying whether Agents Coyle and Sawicki knew about Greene Street. The black hair was pulled back and tied up behind her head. Horn-rimmed glasses wrapped the green eyes, but they didn’t dull the color. Jade is jade, no matter what it’s encased in.

I stuck out my hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Call me Turbo.”

That defused her—for a nanosecond.

“I know your damned name. Sit down!”

I kept my hand outstretched. “Then you have the advantage. You are?”

“The goddamned U.S. attorney for the Southern District!”

“Your title is stenciled on the door. I’m asking your name. Courtesy’s a starting point in the socialist shit-hole I come from.”

The eyes flashed, jade striking iron. I’d pushed it too far. Then they softened, the lips curled up, and she laughed. A big laugh—one that knew something about life. An Armani-clad arm came across the desk. The grip was firm.

“Victoria. Victoria de Millenuits. Thank you for coming to see me on short notice. Apologies for my greeting. You know what they say about litigators.”

“No, we didn’t have any to talk about.”

The flash was back. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Okay. Doesn’t matter. May I sit?”

“Please.”

I took my chair, she took hers. We eyed each other across a big, cheap, veneered desk, as feminine as a tractor. The rest of the office had the same feel. Men’s club wannabe leather. She read my thoughts.

“I haven’t been here long, a few months. My predecessor’s decor. No time to redecorate.”

“Not a priority.”

“I was appointed to do a job. That’s my focus. Furniture…” She waved a delicate hand in the air.

“The kids I grew up with would’ve killed for a shit-hole like this.”

The flash was back. “All right, goddammit. Y’all made your point.”

I was trying to place the accent—Southern, certainly, more bayou than banjo.

“Description wasn’t inaccurate, if it makes any difference.”

She dropped her eyes as she opened a file on her desk, brought the eyes back up and said, “Small talk’s been a pleasure, Mr. Vlost. Let’s get down to cases.”

“Turbo.”

“Where’d you spend last night?”

“Why?”

“My men waited outside your building until after one.”

“You work late.”

“I work till whenever. Where were you?”

“I work late, too.”

“Doing what?”

“I think my lawyer would advise against answering that.”

“Because you have something to hide?”

“Because he doesn’t approve of fishing expeditions.”

“This wouldn’t be our mutual friend Bernie Kordlite?”

“Why do you ask?”

“He gave me your name and address.”

“Bernie sold me out?”

“I could’ve looked in the phone book. What’s your business, Mr. Vlost?”

“Turbo.” I took out a business card and handed it across.

She laughed—another real laugh. “Vlost and Found? Whatever your business is, we know you’re not a comedian.”

“I help people find things.”

“That make you a flatfoot?”

“I believe gumshoe is the correct technical term.”

“What’s Mulholland looking for?”

I shook my head. “I’m sure Bernie didn’t tell you I’d answer that.”

She looked down at her desk. “What’s your business have to do with Lachko Barsukov?”

“Lachko’s an old friend. From the socialist shit-hole.”

“And Rad Rislyakov, also known as Ratko Risly?”

Careful now. “You seem to know a lot about my movements.”

She took a photograph from the file and turned it toward me. I was looking at myself getting out of the Lincoln in the Badger’s Brighton Beach courtyard. The close focus and blurred background said it had been taken with a long telephoto lens. She turned over another picture. I was exiting Ratko’s Chelsea apartment building.

She said, “Tuesday, you’re at Mulholland’s. Coyle saw you there. Yesterday morning, you show up at Risly’s building. Later, you pop out to Brighton Beach for a visit with a top member of Russian organized crime, someone who’s in business with the someone you went to see that morning. When you get back to Manhattan, you play cute all over downtown, then on the Lexington Avenue IRT, like you want to lose anyone following you. Then you don’t come home. Bernie says you’re straight, but Bernie used to be a spook, too. What are you up to, Mr. Vlost?”

I gave up on her calling me Turbo, at least temporarily. “Sounds like I was successful.”

“Successful? At what?”

“Losing that tail.”

She slapped the desk. “Goddammit—”

“Okay, okay. Lachko’s an old friend, like I said. We used to work together—in the KGB. I heard he was sick.”

“So you were visiting a sick friend?”

“Sure. Is that a crime, even if we are both ex-socialists?”

She ignored me. “Why the shenanigans in the subway?”

“Don’t like being followed. Occupational hangover.”

“Why did you think you were being followed?”

“I wasn’t wrong.”

“You’re not as smart as you think you are either. Tell me something I don’t know.”